Leaving the wheat with the chaff. This is not your mother’s poetry.

old people

Red lights ignite four hundred yards before a yellow Yield.
My brake pedal French kisses the rug.
That was strike one.
Ruler straight and seventeen inches from your bumper—
Almost hit by a pitch—
Near enough to spit on the faded blue New Jersey license plate:
Well-hydrated urine lettering: vintage 1853.
I should’ve known.
Strike two.
And here comes the payoff pitch:
Your ’89 Buick rolls a strenuous three miles per hour through the sign
And what should be seen peeping over the steering wheel
But the puff white bloom of a Q-tip with glasses.
Strike three: you’re old!